


Something Else, Something New

by inabsurd



Series: amalgamation [1]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Flat Dreams inspired, Gen, Identity Issues, Intrusive Thoughts, POV Second Person, Post-Weirdmageddon, Same Coin Theory (Gravity Falls), don't ask me why this happened it just did
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-11
Updated: 2019-08-11
Packaged: 2020-08-18 22:18:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20199073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inabsurd/pseuds/inabsurd
Summary: You start getting your memories back shortly after the incident. They just don't match up with what you've been told.





	Something Else, Something New

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Flat Dreams](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6062122) by [PengyChan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PengyChan/pseuds/PengyChan). 

> This was originally gonna be a drabble series but I think it functions better as a stand-alone...Still, I will definitely have to write more same coin theory in the future since it's one of my fav aus in this fandom
> 
> For this fic, lots of the parallels between Bill and Stan are based on PengyChan's Flat Dreams so you should absolutely read that if you haven't already! It's one of my fav fics, and I hope knowledge about Bill's history (because Flat Dreams is canon in my heart) makes my own fic a little bit more enjoyable

They call you Stanley, and Hero, and Grunkle. They’ve called you Old Man, Stanford, and Screw Up. Others have called you by a thousand other names because of a thousand different crimes committed in a thousand different places, but none of it feels right.

You’re not who they say you are, and the man who looks painfully familiar and the two children seem to see that something is wrong too. The little ones cry a lot, and the man, the one who is also called Stanford, looks at you with such unadulterated anguish that you think he must be mourning the man he calls brother, even as he says that that man is you.

Supposedly, you sacrificed your mind to save your family from a demonic dictator and that’s why your memories are such a mess, but that doesn’t feel like the whole truth. You never did that. You never did anything before that clearing in the woods. Despite the pitying looks and insistent explanations, the one thing you are certain of is that you never existed until now.

The Pines push on though, and you wish that they wouldn’t. You wish they would stop looking at you like that, that they’d stop saying things like that because they’re  _ wrong _ . They must be. Then the pig jumps on you, and your body seems to run on autopilot to yell at Waddles.

The pig thing seems to cheer up the little girl, and her smile brings with it a thousand other little moments with her and her brother. She shows you pictures of you all together, and she and her brother tell you stories about the time you all apparently spent together. Images and moments come back to you unbidden, and you find yourself acting the part of the man they’re looking for on instinct, despite your surety that that’s not you, you’re not  _ him _ . 

And yet, something is undoubtedly familiar. Maybe it’s the acting; you have the very distinct feeling that this is not the first time you’ve had to play the role of another or even the first time you’ve had to do so in an unfamiliar body. This feels natural in a way that the man in the scrapbooks and stories just  _ isn’t _ . Not wholly.

There’s more to you, and ol’ Six-Fingers seems to think what’s missing is from your childhood, and the decade you apparently spent on the run.

He’s on the right track, you think, but he seems to have set his sights on the entirely wrong target. After all, where could you have run when you were so,  _ so  _ trapped? Restricted to simple, two dimensional standards, and car trunks, and bubble-like domes when there is so much more out there to do, to steal, to rule?

You don’t tell Stanford any of this though, even after the kids have gone to bed. He won’t like it, and you know with as much certainty as you know that he’s wrong, that if you do something he doesn’t like, he’ll drop you like he’s holding the searing hot metal that he branded you with. He’ll tell you to leave, and if you don’t, then he’ll turn his back to you when you need him, and use metal and unicorn hair to keep you out again.

So you keep up the charade, and you keep it up well. No one seems to notice, and before you know it, Pine Tree and Mabel are throwing a party before they leave for the summer. You’ll miss the kids. You had fun getting to know them over these past few days, and, while you don’t quite remember it in the way that they think you do, you know that things got far more interesting with them in Gravity Falls and that they made you feel like you had a family again when you thought you had lost yours ages ago.

Everything is going well, and then Ford asks you to sail to the Arctic Ocean with him. The smell of salt-sea air comes to you unbidden, and you can almost hear the sound of creaking wood under your feet, and feel the splinters in your palm. You think you’re remembering something; the boat from the stories. The one that the two of you were going to use to see the world.

Exploring just this world seems like a bit of a waste of time to you when you could go to dimensions that neither of you had ever seen before; to places where you can just get away from all these damn restrictions, but you think this is one of those things that Poindexter wouldn’t like to hear, so you keep it to yourself. This world’s a step down from  _ all  _ the worlds, and you’ve never been good at limiting yourself, but the warm feeling in your chest makes you want to just take what you can get. You agree, and if you cry a little, well, you certainly don’t know why. You have amnesia and can’t be held accountable for any stray emotions you may seem to have.

The moment passes, and Stanford remains none the wiser. He always was an easy mark.

The kids leave Gravity Falls soon after, and you and Fordsy prepare for your trip.

The evening before you trade in forest for sea, you find yourself in the basement. Sixer is up in his room sleeping for once in his life ( _ he never used to sleep, he was always working, or trying to avoid you since you couldn’t get to him when he was awake _ ), so the two of you can get an early start come morning. You’ve never been down here before, or at least you haven’t since everything changed. Everyone says that you spent the last thirty years in the laboratory trying to get Stanford’s ( _ it’s not his, it wasn’t his idea _ ) portal working to bring him back from the other side, but once again that doesn’t feel like the whole truth.

Your mind sees hazy images of blueprints, and you think you saw another go through the portal, briefly, years ago. You remember his scream and how funny it sounded.

The memories have been coming back more clearly as time goes on, but nothing ever matches entirely with what you’ve been told. You wonder if Ford and the kids are hiding something from you, or if they just don’t know you as well as they think they do.

Or maybe they never knew you at all, and instead knew someone else in your place.

Stanley must have been here at some point, you think. If he hadn’t been, then Six-Fingers and the kids wouldn’t have all those stories and pictures. You wonder if you would have half of the memories you do if it weren’t for Stanley.

Because at this point, you’re sure you’re not Stanley, but he must be important to you if you share his memories. From what you’ve been told, Stanley was in here before the memory gun, but apparently someone else was in his mind too. And then Ford pulled the trigger, and you were here in his place--in  _ both  _ of their places.

Looking around at the boxed up lab equipment, and the remaining portal parts on the far wall, you resolve yourself to get more information on the demon Stanley had died to destroy.

You find Sixer’s journals packed away in a box of his other research, and you pour over them for hours following. Studying the cryptic messages in the dead of night comes with an air of routine, and you find Fordsy’s journal entries to be hilarious in the way he attempts to explain the unexplainable in flimsy human terms.

Eventually, you come across a page in Journal 2 detailing a triangle-shaped dream demon that looks and feels both alien, and like the missing puzzle piece to your identity. Further reading reveals that the being of pure energy, Bill Cipher, is the one who helped Stanford build the portal ( _ see? not his, not his at all _ ), and also the cause for the apocalypse that lead to your current identity crisis. 

You read every page on Bill in this journal, and then you move to the third, where Poindexter’s tone towards the demon has changed drastically. He calls Bill a betrayer, a fraud, and says that he should never have trusted him.

That doesn’t sit well with you, not at all. You know what it’s like to be on that side of Brainiac's ire, and it makes you want to shove him straight through to chaos itself and  **incinerate him** .

…

You’re honestly not sure where that came from. A little scared, and a little mournful of an empty hole in your chest that you didn’t even know was there, you set down the journal, and resolve to ask Stanford about it all in the morning.

You’ve always been good with pretty words and spinning the truth, but you really appreciate the blunt and direct approach. It suits your patience much better than beating around the bush, so when you see Sixer the next morning, you go for the throat.

“Tell me about Bill.”

Stanley’s twin sighs deeply and sets down the box he had been carrying. “What do you want to know?” he asks.

“He’s what was in my” ( _ his _ ) “Mind when you erased it, yeah? Why’d we” ( _ you two _ ) “have to do it?”

Fordsy squints at you suspiciously. “We’ve been over this, Stan,” he says gently, “Is your memory getting worse?”

It’s not. It’s getting better, but it’s not just Stanley’s, so you keep that to yourself. “My memory’s the same as ever, Poindexter. I’m just trying to understand is all.”

“Bill took over the town,” he reminds you. “He took the world as we know it and turned it on it’s head,” he sounds angrier now. “For heaven’s sake, Stan, he tried to kill the kids!”

That shakes you. “The kids?” you ask, just to be sure. You feel a little numb.

Ford nods. “He was trying to get me to talk. He wanted the equation from my mind so he could have the world, not just the Falls.”

“He was trapped,” you say. You remember that. He needed out.

...you needed out? You’re not sure where the line is. It’s your memory, just like Stanley’s memories are your memories, but you’re as much Bill Cipher as you are Stanley Pines. You’re something else. You think you might be both. You think that makes you neither.

Six-Fingers eyes you critically, and suddenly you feel afraid. Afraid he might figure you out before you’re ready, just as he did back then.

“Stanley,” he says, slowly, dangerously, but still filled with concern. “What’s going on?”

You want to tell him. You want nothing more than to tell this man who is your brother, not your brother, and the shadow of your brother all at once. You want his help, his approval, you want him to know what you know, and to use your knowledge to make his life better.

But you know better. If you tell him, and he rejects you, you could hurt him. You’ve done it before.

So you keep your secrets tucked close and say, “Nothing, Smart Guy, I’m just still trying to make sense of everything is all,” You turn your back, grab Ford’s forgotten box, say, “C’mon, let’s get this show on the road,” and head out the door.

He grabs your shoulder before you can take two steps. Softly, he says, “Stan, if you’re having trouble, you can talk to me.”

“Right,” your voice is thick as you pull yourself from his grasp, “Will do, Ford.”

You hear him huff in frustration and stalk out of the shack after you. “I’m serious, Stanley. We never had a chance to work through our issues before Weirdmageddon, but maybe we could have if we had just talked instead of avoiding each other. Following that same pattern won’t help us.”

You know he’s just trying to show that he cares. You know he just wants to be a good brother, but dammit, he’s got the wrong guy! You want to scream from the frustration of it all. You want to slam doors, set fires, run away, and maim people because you’re just so  _ sick  _ of being mistaken for someone you’re not. You’ve been anything and everything over the years, salesman, muse, child, corpse, a brother, a god, a  _ lie _ . You’re not those things anymore, and you’re not the people that had to be those things. You just  _ are _ , and you wish Ford would  **leave you alone** !

“ _ We  _ never had any issues to work through before because I didn’t  _ exist  _ before!”

His eyes widen at your outburst. “What are you-”

You cut him off. “I’m not Stanley,” you’re bitter and it shows, “I never was!”

You both stand there in the wake of your own destruction and await damnation that is sure to follow. He’ll reject you, he’ll hate you, he’ll remove you, he’ll-

“I don’t understand,” he finally admits.

You stare at him for a long time; at his turtleneck sweater, at the four pens you can see sticking out of his coat pocket, at his defeated expression. You feel your own face, the one that should have been Stanley’s, mirror his. Your shoulders droop. Suddenly, you feel as old as they’ve been saying you are. “Neither do I,” you admit.

Six fingers are suddenly on your shoulder in a gentle show of support. “Then let’s figure it out,” he tells you, and you wish you could believe him. You think that you love him and that you value him above all else, but you’ve also got several rejections under your belt that leave you jaded and angry.

And yet, he could be your only shot at finding answers, and you hate not knowing all.

You take a deep breath. “I don’t remember everything, but I remember more than you think.” Then, slowly, deliberately, you say, “I know lots of things now.”

The meaning of the phrase is not lost on Ford. In an instant, he goes from supportive concern to barely restrained hostility. “Bill,” he spits the name like a curse.

You shrug, as if to somehow downplay the consequences you know you are about to face, “Looks like it.”

“How long have you been…” he pauses, “Seeing his memories?” he finally settles on.

“Since the beginning. I think. I just...didn’t realize whose they were,” You don’t like the contemplative look on Stanford’s face, so you quickly add, “I have his and Stanley’s, I’m pretty sure because some of the stuff you’ve told me matches up. I just have a hard time telling which is which.”

“It must be a side effect of having Bill in your mind when I erased it,” Sixer decides, and you struggle to hold back an irritated groan.

“It wasn’t my mind, Brainiac,” you tell him, trying desperately to impress upon him the difference. “It was Stanley’s, who ain’t here anymore. Sure, I get his face, and bits and pieces of his life, but I also got bits and pieces of Bills.”

“Having Bill’s memories doesn’t make you Bill,” he tries to say, but you’re having none of it. 

You think you must be absolutely red with anger as you shout, “Having Stanley’s memories doesn’t make me Stanley!” Fordsy’s shock is palpable in the air, and you have to remind yourself to take deep breaths before you hurt him again, “I’m not him,” you say, “either of them. I’m just me, and _I_ _hate being shackled by your flimsy human understandings_!”

That last part, that is definitely more Bill than Stanley, and the only reason you know that is because in the next second, Six-Fingers draws a plasma blade from his coat pocket and slips into a defensive stance.

You back off, raising your hands in surrender as you do so because, no matter how  **angry** you are, you’ve been down this road twice before; you know better.

“I ain’t gonna hurt you, Sixer,” you tell him, although you’re not sure how convincing you are considering your chest is still heaving in a barely muted rage. Regardless, you soften your tone a bit. “Just don’t try to make me into him. I’m not Stanley.”

You can practically hear the gears turning is Fordsy’s head. “Okay,” he finally says. “I won’t try to, uh, restrict you. But I want to figure out what happened.”

One look at Stanford is all it takes for you to know you’re not winning that argument, so you simply nod, and tell him that you’ll do what you can to help out.

“Can I…” Poindexter clears his throat and tries again. “Is it still acceptable to call you Stan, or do you have a different name in mind?”

That’s...a good question actually. You never stopped to really consider what name you should go with, busy as you were coping with an identity that you didn’t want being thrust upon you. All you know is what you  _ don’t  _ want to be called, so for now, you tell Ford that Stan is fine. You don’t have a problem with it anyway, which is a win in your books. Honestly, Stanley wouldn’t bother you either if it didn’t come with certain connotations that you can’t get past. Stan feels like okay middle ground though.

Stanford looks relieved by your agreement, and you wonder if maybe he’s just grateful because he thinks he can bring his brother back.

That’s probably it, honestly. Had the situation been reversed, you’re sure that you’d do the same.

You can tell Poindexter’s thinking too hard again; wondering where the line lies between what he considers Bill and what he considers Stanley. You don’t have an answer for him, not one that he’ll accept in any case, so you pick up your box and proceed with packing.

Let Sixer struggle with the origins, the differences, the parts that are both, and the parts that are just you. He’s the scientist; he’ll pose his own hypothesis and come to his own conclusions no matter what the truth is.

And you? You can pack.

You have a trip to take after all, and you’ll be damned if you lose this opportunity to get out of Gravity Falls and spend time with the Brainiac after being separated from him for so, so long.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments and kudos would be appreciated, especially because I've never written in second person before lol


End file.
